


Memories Are Bullets

by WimseyLady



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Angst, Banter, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship/Love, Kissing, M/M, Memory Loss, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:03:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WimseyLady/pseuds/WimseyLady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a mission goes bad Callen is left struggling to repair his fractured memory not sure whether his growing feelings for Sam are returning memories or part of a new attraction. Sam, meanwhile, is unwilling to push his recovering partner even though the near-loss had reset his priorities where Callen is concerned. Then the old enemy resurfaces and the duo fear their time has run out before it has even begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Swiss Cheese With Legs

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a Richard Kadrey quote, “Memories are bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces” (Kill the Dead) because without help I suck at titles.  
> I think this is the beginning of a larger piece but it may be slow in coming together...bear with me.  
> This is unbetaed so if you find any mistakes let me know.

### Chapter One - Swiss Cheese With Legs

The lawn stretched out green and lush from the old brick patio, speckled with white uniforms and colorful bathrobes. Sam wondered why so many of them were pale – greys, blues, browns – and wondered if it reflected the fragile moods of the facility occupants or contributed to them. He thought a bright red or a nice burnt orange would do wonders for everyone’s outlook. It would certainly help him find Callen in the mix.  
  
A small group of patients were being led through the slow movements of a tai-chi class halfway down on the right. Some wheel-chairs had been parked at the edge of the gravel pathway, the majority of the occupants staring in to space. At the far edge of the lawn two orderlies were chasing back and forth trying to catch a young man who was delighting in out-maneuvering them as he systematically shook off each piece of clothing.  
  
Sam watched the mayhem for a minute with a growing smile. The young man’s laugh was infectious, and the flourish with which he released his t-shirt was downright artistic. Coupled with the gazelle-style leap he was putting on quite a performance, but it all came to a staggering end as he tried to free one of his kicking legs from his pajama pants, tangled in them instead, and brought himself and both orderlies to the grass in a jumble of limbs.  
  
Sam chuckled and shook his head, and resumed his visual search for his partner. He found him amidst the easels wielding a paintbrush with a shocking amount of concentration for a trained killer. The instructor, who was wandering quietly amongst her small group of students, stopped to speak to him; he replied, she smiled, he nodded, and she moved away, patting his shoulder as she went. Sam released a breath of laughter and shook his head for the second time. G Callen would never cease to amaze him, and he hoped he would remain equally unpredictable as Sam ambled over with a request he was sure G wouldn’t like.  
  
*  
  
“Nice shoe.”  
  
Callen lifted his paintbrush from the canvas, smothered a smile and let the warmth of familiarity wash over him. “It’s a cow,” he stated firmly.  
  
“Does it have its ears pierced?”  
  
Callen clenched his jaw but there was wry humor in his eyes. “You know I can take you out with this paint brush…” He turned to face his friend, and felt his heart stutter at the comforting sight of big muscles beneath tight red sleeves; warm brown eyes pinning him with all of the history between them. The injustice of it all rushed over Callen, and he covered his discomfort with a frown for his paintbrush. “At least I think I can.”  
  
Sam’s mouth quirked at the corner, and he rolled his larger frame closer, easing the tool from his partner’s fingers. “You can,” he affirmed, “And since you’re lethal with both ends of it what saw we take a walk?”  
  
*  
  
Callen had once thought losing his memory would be a blessing, God knows he had enough he’d like to forget. Not all the memories, perhaps, because even he could pick out a foster mother who had smiled at him with genuine affection, or a school play that had made the teacher proud, or a shared a cup of tea with Hetty after a long day. Even Callen, whose first name was a single letter, whose whole family was dead, had had one or two days’ worth remembering in his otherwise solitary life. But some of the memories were worth parting with; the first man he had killed, the burned remains of a family in the wrong place at the wrong time; the suicide bombers; the serial killers; the drug dealers and their wasted, pathetic victims; any of those memories Callen would have happily parted with at one time or another. But fate had a twisted sense of humor, and having a patchwork memory was exhausting. An old alias with a dark background; hardcore associates; a gun to Sam’s head, and a tiny pill that had turned out to be anything but innocuous, and here he was; Swiss cheese with legs. His mind hadn’t even had the decency to blackout the things he had done in the months of his absence… his hiding. No, he still remembered all of that with crystal clarity, as if that drug-abused, psychopathic horror of an alias were his real life, and the rest just wishful thinking. It was as if someone had taken a hole-punch to the film of his life while drunk… and dancing. And now everything could have meaning, or nothing could, and his brain was turning itself inside out trying to figure out which was which.  
  
“So apart from painting class how’s it going?” Sam asked, as their feet crunched on the gravel, and their shoulders warmed in the sun.  
  
Callen’s brows quirked. “It’s like summer camp…with bars on the windows and crappy food.”  
  
“Sounds exactly like summer camp.” Sam grinned.  
  
“Why’re you here, Sam?”  
  
Callen could tell he wasn’t going to like the answer the minute he asked the question because Sam chose to squint out at the trees instead of answer him, his face a study in innocence. But he worked his lower lip past his teeth, and G realized with a start that that was a tell. Sam’s tell. And the index finger of his left hand tapped twice, almost imperceptibly, on his thigh. Callen was so relieved to have remembered something concrete about his partner that he missed the first words out of his mouth. He looked up and felt that familiar jolt and roll in his stomach when his eyes found Sam’s watching him.  
  
“Say again?”  
  
“I want you to come back,” Sam repeated. “To NCIS.” As if that had needed any clarification.  
  
Callen was already moving his head in the negative. “The doctors…”  
  
“Say there’s not a lot else they can do for you…”  
  
“You spoke to my doctors?”  
  
“You think Hetty hasn’t had them on speed dial since you were admitted?”  
  
Callen wasn’t sure whether to be comforted or harassed at the invasion of privacy. Of course, with no next of kin NCIS, and by default Hetty, was responsible for all of his major health related decisions.  
  
“Obviously you’ll be confined to Ops for a while until our docs sign off on you.” Sam grinned and waved his hand. “Maybe they’ll call Nate in for a special consultation.”  
  
Callen remembered enough to groan at the possibility of any psychological probing.  
  
“But you’re more use to us there than here, and it’s got to be better than painting shoes and eating Jello all day.”  
  
“It was a cow, and I like Jello.”  
  
“Come on, G, you can’t hide here forever.”  
  
The voice was gentle but the words so close to home that Callen felt a rush of anger. “What the hell do you know?”  
  
Sam’s body twitched as if physically struck, and his face shut down.  
  
“I didn’t even want to come here but everybody insisted. Told me to be a good boy and do as the doctors ordered and take my medicine and paint shoes!”  
  
“Cows,” Sam corrected softly.  
  
Callen glared at him. “And I did that. Just like I was told. And now that’s not enough and I’m supposed to, what? Man up and get back to work?”  
  
“No-one’s suggesting…”  
  
“Of course they are. That’s all anyone is doing!” the aggitated man snapped. “They’re suggesting, and implying, and whispering behind their clipboards. Is he going to recover? Is he going to snap again? Do we dare give him a gun or will he go postal in Ops if someone slams a file draw?!”  
  
Sam might have laughed if his heart wasn’t aching so much.  
  
“I know what everyone is saying. I know what they’re all thinking.”  
  
Callen began to pace as he ranted, and his display had begun to draw attention. To their right Sam saw two orderlies and a doctor approaching cautiously and gave a short shake of his head, waving them back as his companion spun back to him and started poking viciously at his own t-shirt covered chest.  
  
“I’m saying it too. I’m thinking it too.” He advanced on his partner with a sudden burst of speed, but Sam never moved. “What the hell happens if I come back and I can’t hack it?! Do you think I would put your life at risk like that?! Or Kensi’s?! Or…” His mind flailed for the word and his frustration spiraled out of control.  
  
“Deeks,” Sam supplied.  
  
Callen howled at the sky and then doubled over as if in physical pain.  
  
The orderlies took a step forward but the doctor stopped them. Sam remembered him from long nights waiting with a detoxing G. He was a good man, and a good doctor. They had talked about G’s recovery and the part Sam would inevitably play it in. The big man nodded once, and the doctor returned it, taking the orderlies with him as he left.  
  
The fight seemed to have left Callen with that sudden rush of sound, and he just stood now, still and quiet staring out at the grass and trees.  
  
“It’s so frustrating,” he growled, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t remember shit!”  
  
“I can get you your file…”  
  
“My file won’t tell me what I want to know,” he retorted, sounding rude, and whiny, and frightened all at once.  
  
With infinite patience, Sam asked, “And what’s that?”  
  
“I don’t know…” He sighed and looked out at the traitorously beautiful day. “What kind of music do I listen to? What was the last movie I saw?...” He looked over at his partner. “What kind of friend am I?... When the hell will I remember?!”  
  
“You listen to jazz, although I have no damn idea why.” Sam gave a half-smile. “We all watched a Batman marathon together four days before…”  
  
Callen raised a rueful eyebrow. “Before I lost it?”  
  
Sam didn’t comment. “It was a Deeks thing.”  
  
“Did I like it?”  
  
This time Sam grinned. “You said there should have been more Robin.”  
  
Callen couldn’t say what he had meant by that but he filed it away for later examination. Besides Sam was speaking again, and his voice had dropped low and intimate, and Callen could feel it right down to his toes.  
  
“You don’t have many friends, G, but those you do have count you as the best. You’re loyal, and strong. You’ve got their back through anything, but aren’t afraid to call it when they’re acting like an asshole.”  
  
“Speaking from experience?”  
  
The big guy shrugged. “You’re my best friend.” The silence stretched. “I don’t know when you’re memory’s coming back, G, or even if it will but I got your back either way.”  
  
Callen could feel the burn of emotion on the back of his eyes and in his throat, and struggled to put it down to the cocktail of medication they had him on. He wondered if he and Sam had been on hugging terms before his… incident. Somehow he doubted it, but it didn’t stop the desire now that pulled on every fiber of his being, begging him to rest his head on that solid, unyielding chest and let his partner hold him up for a while.  
  
“I’m afraid,” he whispered, broken.  
  
“Good,” came back equally broken. “It means you’re human.”  
  
This time he knew the tears shone brightly in his eyes but he forced himself to look up at his friend anyway. His partner. “I don’t want to let you down.”  
  
Sam’s smile was gut-wrenchingly gentle, as was the hand that caressed down Callen’s arm all the way to his hand where he tangled their fingers together. “I got you, G.”  
  



	2. Welcome Home, Mr. Callen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Callen's first day back at NCIS after his lost year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken some time arriving, "real" life is really persistent! Not a lot of slash stuff in this chapter but I have some ideas for the future chapters.

# Memories Are Bullets

### Chapter Two – Welcome Home, Mr. Callen

The cab dropped him off at the curb, took his money, and left. Of course the driver thought he had completed a fare to the beach, or the Thai restaurant, or a million other, more appealing places than the condemned building with the ornate locked doors and bright red warning signs. Who in their right mind would want to go in there? And Callen was asking himself exactly that as he shouldered his worn duffel bag, and took a steeling breath. How many times was he going to do this? Arrive at this building after a long absence feeling like a stranger; wondering if he still belonged here; afraid it was the only place he would ever belong. Part of him wanted to run, disappear into the crowd and never look back. He had already proved himself capable of it, and even without the financial backing and support of NCIS he had been a liar for a living for a very long time, becoming someone else would not be hard. It was not as if he had many concrete ties to the G Callen identity – it was less rounded than most of his five minute aliases.   
  


He snorted at his own self-indulgent misery; As if for a second he would honestly turn his back on this place and the people inside it.   
  


“You were supposed to call me to pick you up.” Sam’s voice was mildly reproachful as he appeared from inside the property and propped his shoulder against the side of the building.   
  


“I got a cab.” Callen shrugged. “What else am I supposed to spend my money on?”   
  


Sam narrowed his eyes. “Take the help when it’s offered, G!”   
  


The other man affected innocence. “You wanna carry my bag then?” But was immediately sorry when Sam’s large figure rolled away from the building and advanced on him. It was indecent that a man of Sam’s size could move with such feline grace, and Callen was reminded of a predatory cat the moment before all thoughts scattered from his mind. Sam crowded into his space all chest and arms and neck, smelling of mint toothpaste and musky cologne… and Sam. Callen could smell him and feel him - was momentarily engulfed by the sensations of him - and his heart skittered erratically. The backs of Sam’s fingers brushed the bare skin of Callen’s neck as he eased the bag strap from his shoulder, and electricity arched over Callen’s skin raising goosebumps everywhere. God he wanted…  
  


“You ready?”   
  


_YES! ___“What?”  
  


Sam’s dark eyebrow raised and he jerked his head towards the building. “To go face the music… or rather the welcoming committee?!”   
  


“Please tell me there isn’t going to be a sign?!”   
  


“If there isn’t you have Kensi to thank and Deeks will be sulking,” Sam replied, hanging back so that his partner could enter ahead of him, “but I don’t know where we left the debate on balloons.”   
  


Callen didn’t catch the groan in time, but the low, throaty chuckle from Sam – so close behind him – made the slip worth it. He could do this. He could face a few minutes of excruciating embarrassment and unconcealed emotion, and even this sudden hyper-awareness his body had developed every time Sam was close by. He would face it because it might knock loose another dust-mote of memory that would tell him whether he had felt any of these things before, and more importantly how he had handled them.   
  


The place never changed. Not even the color of the walls. The doors, the windows, the staircase, even the scrollwork partitions of their shared office were exactly where he had left them. There were two desks and four chairs… unobtrusive laptops and phones; there had been a…  
  


“Fishtank?” he murmured with a frown.   
  


Sam smirked. “For about five minutes a year ago.”   
  


“Deeks.” It wasn’t a hard deduction.   
  


Across the main room was Hetty’s office as eclectic and homey and intimidating as ever. The small operations manager wasn’t behind the big desk with its even bigger pile of paperwork, but her bone china tea-set sat waiting on its silver tray.   
  


The taste of chamomile tea suddenly swept Callen’s mouth, and he licked his lower lip involuntarily.   
  


“Okay?”   
  


Callen nodded a little convulsively, but whether from the sudden sense memory, or the awareness that Sam had been watching him so closely, he couldn’t be sure. He was saved the immediate difficulty of figuring it out by a warm voice from his right.   
  


“Callen!”   
  


He turned and accepted the beautiful brunette into his arms with genuine affection. “Hey, Kensi.”   
  


She squeezed him tightly and then leaned back with a big smile on her face, not yet releasing her hold on him.   
  


Callen let his hand stroke down her back as he studied her face, relieved and amazed that it was so familiar both physically and emotionally. “You’ve changed your hair,” he noted, idly grasping a handful of the long dark strands.   
  


She tipped her head sideways, delight brightening her dark eyes. “Thank you for noticing,” she exclaimed, and sent a pointed look to her approaching partner before punching him sharply on the arm.   
  


“OW!” The blonde cried out, trying too late to cover it in that sing-song tone boys use when girls hurt them. He gripped his throbbing upper arm, and shot a decidedly wicked grin back. “In my defense, your hair isn’t usually what I’m looking at!”   
  


Kensi’s eyes narrowed, and because there was amusement curving her mouth Deek’s realized a fraction too late that he was in danger.   
  


“OW!” This time a laugh was trapped amidst the pain, and he stood rubbing both upper arms as the leggy brunette stood back to gloat. “Bet you missed this,” he said to Callen.   
  


“Watching you get beat up by a girl? Yeah, I missed that.”   
  


“It’s part of our flirtation,” Deeks explained, leaning in for the handshake-one-arm-man-hug. “There is a lot of pent up lust here.”   
  


Kensi laughed and shook her head. “In your dreams, Deeks.”   
  


“Every night,” he shot back. “Sometimes more than once.”   
  


She mock shuddered. “Ewww. Does that constitute sexual harassment?”   
  


“Yeah, and we’re all victims,” Sam protested.   
  


“There’s a fine line between harassment and flirtation,” Deeks pointed out. “I was paying attention at that seminar.”   
  


The big guy sighed and shook his head. “Evidently not.”   
  


“Callen!” Another female voice blessedly interrupted any further debate, and the assembled turned as a group to watch Nell hurry down the final steps from the upper level.   
  


“You’re back,” she continued, unnecessarily, suddenly seeming hesitant to approach. “We missed you.”   
  


Callen recognized the discomfort as what-if-the-crazy-guy-is-still-crazy-and-he-doesn’t-remember-we’re-friends concern, but could only smile calmly back. “Hi, Nell. How’s ops?”   
  


The sharp eyes darted uncertainly to Sam before she smiled brightly and gave a slow, self-conscious shrug. “Actually, I haven’t been in ops or a while. I passed my field training so….”  
  


Callen had forgotten the odd speech pattern the analyst employed, but as her first sentence trailed off it all came rushing back. She was smart, he remembered, genius smart. He had always assumed that was why she spoke the way she did; let her sentences trail off because the conclusion was so obvious it seemed pointless to say, and then remembered very few people shared her intellect so she had to finish the sentence if they were all to stay on the same page. It was strangely comforting at that moment… or would have been if she didn’t keep shooting looks at Sam.   
  


“Congratulations,” he replied, trying not to sound wary. “They found you a partner yet?”   
  


Again the shrug. “Well, it’s still a temporary thing. You know, I’m still needed in ops…”  
  


“Nell’s been paired with me,” Sam announced.   
  


Both agents looked at him; Callen in surprise, Nell with a familiarity that made Callen’s gut-twist.   
  


“You?”   
  


The little red-head pasted on a big, albeit slightly strained, smile. “Yes. I may not be G Callen material but I’ve run away from a few explosions with the big guy.” She nudged at him playfully, and he grinned at her.   
  


“Broke your jaw too.” Callen had thought that smile was his.   
  


Nell hitched her chin higher. “It was a fractured cheekbone,” she corrected, not at all upset, “and I have learned from my mistake.”   
  


It was Kensi’s turn to smile. “She tried to tackle Sam.”   
  


“He is… about as solid as he looks,” Nell said, ruefully.   
  


“I appreciate the effort though.”   
  


“I’m just glad the shot missed.”   
  


There was so much history in the look they shared, so much familiarity and trust that hadn’t been there before. Callen felt the wrench and knew it was jealousy; jealousy, and uncertainty, and self-loathing. If he hadn’t caved…If he’d been stronger…  
  


“Mr. Callen.”   
  


The voice broke through everything as it always did bringing silence in its wake… and Callen let it wash over him.   
  


“Hello, Hetty.”   
  


She stood on the step at the edge of her office, and although it did little to increase her height, she towered above the agents who turned to face her.   
  


“You’re late.”   
  


Callen blinked. “I’m sorry.”   
  


“I hope you haven’t made plans for the next eight hours,” she continued, conversationally, “because you are going to need new biometrics records; we are going to have to backstop some of your aliases; there is a year’s worth of reports to familiarize yourself with; and, I believe, you left some open case files of your own.”   
  


This time he tipped his head forward, face a study of disbelief. “It’s been a year, Hetty.”   
  


“Yes, long enough for them to remain unfinished, I agree.” She smiled and nodded. “We can save your physical until tomorrow.”   
  


“Thank you?”   
  


Her piercing gaze swept the assembled. An eyebrow rose. “And if the rest of you need something to do…?”   
  


There was a sudden flurry of activity; shaking hands and heads, quick feet, and Callen was standing alone. He felt adrift.   
  


“Mr. Callen.”   
  


He looked up, and the dark haired imp winked at him. “Welcome home.”   
  


“Thank you.” They both knew it barely covered the magnitude of their relationship.   
  


“You okay?” Sam reappeared around the scrollwork partition, Callen’s hovering guardian.   
  


The other agent tried to conjure a believable smile to go with his nonchalant shrug. “Just trying to picture you with Nell.”   
  


Sam’s half-smile was believable. “Just a little more odd that you and me.”   
  


“So, who do you prefer?” Callen didn’t know why he felt the need to poke at the festering wound, but his partner’s answer threw him.   
  


“Depends what you’re asking.”   
  


“I…was asking about going out on missions.”   
  


“Oh, then Nell, hands down.” Sam grinned. “She doesn’t get jealous.”   
  


“I am not jealous.”   
  


Dark brows rose. “You’re sure acting like it.”   
  


“I…” Callen was momentarily at a loss. Was he that transparent? “…would not be jealous of someone who has to spend hours in the car with you.”   
  


“You’ve just forgotten how much you enjoy it.”   
  


At that he laughed. “I may have a patchwork memory but there are some things etched permanently on my brain.”   
  


“Yeah?” The smile was downright lascivious. “I’m etched permanently on your brain.”   
  


It had been a long time since he had blushed. “I meant…”  
  


Sam grinned and headed back into their workspace. “I know what you meant.”   
  


“You see I didn’t miss this,” Callen objected, never-the-less trailing behind him.   
  


The responding grin was warm, and confidant, and oh so familiar. “You missed me.”   
  



	3. The Sound of His Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Callen wakes from a nightmare and just wants to hear Sam's voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I'm sorry for the delay in posting.

“When you’re done here you’re expected in archives,” Hetty stated, already heading out the door. “Apparently there is a query about your June 2011 expense report.”  
  
Callen looked up in confusion, his stomach sinking. “Hetty, I can’t…”  
  
“Don’t keep them waiting, Mr. Callen. You don’t want it on your permanent record.”  
  
The voice lingered after the little figure had gone, and Callen sighed and turned back to his desk. But in place of the reports he had been working on, the surface was empty but for a single white pill in the center of the polished wood. Callen picked it up with thumb and forefinger, surprised his hand was not shaking as cold dread began to engulf him.  
  
 _This is not real! __He commanded himself to believe it, but he trembled as he rose from the desk. It was wrong. Something was wrong. The lighting…unnaturally dark with too many shadows; the sound…there were no sounds, it was silent, his footsteps didn’t even echo as he rounded the partition… And suddenly he was at home, but it wasn’t home. He was still at NCIS headquarters; Hetty’s office to the right, the staircase directly ahead. There was a couch in the middle of the downstairs space and a coffee table strewn with items. As Callen got closer he could see more white pills, bullets, knives… some coated with blood; a hypodermic needle, empty bottles of alcohol. He reached for the gun half hidden beneath a crumpled newspaper dated a year ago; it was slick with wet blood and Callen couldn’t retain his grip. It clattered to the floor. There was movement to his left, and his head whipped around.  
  
 _Sam ____  
  
His partner was on his knees, hands bound behind him execution style. His back drop was a street corner… the street corner, the one where Callen himself had been shot years ago, where Sam had cradled him and demanded G not die, fierce and terrified at once. People walked past the kneeling man as if he didn’t exist, so ordinary.  
  
 _Sam! __G tried to call to him but his voice was no more than a whisper. He tried to take a step towards him but his limbs were so heavy and clumsy - drunk or stoned, perhaps, or maybe just dream heavy. _Sam! ____  
  
Something made him turn, and he found the staircase to Ops on his right, a familiar figure in shadow at the top.  
  
“G!” He spun back, the weight of a gun suddenly in his left hand, a knife dripping blood down his right. _I don’t shoot with my left! ___he thought wildly as his left arm raised, and his finger depressed the trigger.  
  
There was no sound, no recoil, no bullet, but Sam’s body jerked back as if struck.  
  
 _SAM! ___  
  
Callen forced himself around, somehow knowing if he could kill the figure at the top of the stairs it would all be over. There were bloody cuts on his forearms. He dropped the knife and he felt the burn of pain as it sliced his leg as it fell. He gripped the gun with both hands, blood making them slippery, adrenaline making them shake. He pulled the trigger and pain exploded in his right shoulder. He jerked backwards, firing the gun again, and felt the tear of bullet through flesh in his right thigh. His body crumpled, the gun spinning wildly across the floor and disappearing under the couch. He looked over at Sam’s form lying prone on the concrete of the sidewalk, and tried to drag himself closer. Blood trickled over black skin into pain filled brown eyes that never-the-less held G’s gaze as the injured man tried without success to aid his partner. Behind Sam Callen saw the shadowy figure round the corner, no more visible for being in direct sunlight, and advance on his partner.  
  
 _Sam! __It was almost a sob, and Callen clawed at the ground, blood making him slide uselessly on the wooden floor even as concrete ripped his fingernails bloody. _Sam! Please…. Sam! ____  
  
The figure was almost to him.  
  
 _Sam! God no! Please… Sam! Sam!... ___  
  
“SAM!”  
  
Callen broke from the dream with his partners name roaring from his mouth, drenched in sweat, heart exploding from his chest, blood roaring in his ears. He was sitting up, tangled in black sheets, one foot halfway to the carpeted floor before he knew where he was. He sat frozen for a minute. He shook so hard the bed creaked, and all he could hear was the ragged gasps of his own breathing. Fuck! When finally he remembered how, Callen forced the breath to stay in his lungs; held it for seven impossible, burning seconds while he clenched half-moon indentations into his palms. And then he let it all go.  
  
He rose carefully from the bed, not sure his legs would support him and stood for a moment as a wave of nausea swept over him and passed away. When he was sure he could, he crossed the room like a newborn colt, and staggered against the vanity in the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment taking in sweat soaked hair that thankfully was too short to react to the repeated scraping of his fingers; and a worryingly pale face with dark bruises beneath eyes that were still slightly wild.  
  
He splashed cold water on his face and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the rushing water. It almost drowned out the sound of his own voice, a dream echo, screaming Sam's name. Almost.  
  
He splashed more water, dried his face too vigorously with the hand towel, peed, and washed his hands again. He still felt sick.  
  
The kitchen was not the most familiar place in his house. He was barely home, even without the year long absence, and when he was it seemed pointless to cook for one so his neglected refrigerator held no more than two or three partially eaten takeout containers and some aging milk on any given day. The coffee pot may as well have had the Styrofoam still in the jug. The only testament to an occupant was the single water glass upside-down in the drainer, and it was that which Callen flipped over and filled with water directly from the tap.  
  
He stood resting his butt against the counter starting to feel the chill of air-conditioning on his sweat soaked t-shirt and sleeping pants. He pulled the former over his head and threw it at the laundry room door, and for a second contemplated his bare chest; more specifically the heart that still pounded beneath it. He felt sure he had some internal bruising, and found it amazing that it rose and fell in such a rhythmic pattern once again. There was no outward sign of the nightmare he had experienced, and yet his insides still jumped erratically, threatening to bring up the water he had just finished.  
  
God he wanted to talk to Sam... Just hear his voice, warm and familiar and soothing. G would stop shaking once that niggling doubt in the tiniest, darkest corner of his mind, the one that remembered Sam bleeding out on the concrete sidewalk, was put to rest. He hadn’t had a dream that vivid since detoxing in the hospital, and he could have predicted that one would follow his first day back at NCIS. Still, he had not been prepared for the intensity. Maybe it was too early to return to work…Maybe he had left it too long…Maybe he was finally done, burned out and useless, and ready for retirement…  
  
He went back to the bedroom and grabbed his cellphone from the bedside table, and returned to the kitchen where he didn’t have to look at the physical destruction his nightmare had wrought. He had Sam on speed dial, and had pressed the number before another thought had fully formed. He just wanted to hear his partner’s voice telling him everything would be alright. Maybe he would even believe him.  
  
“G? What’s wrong?”  
  
The bark of the voice, slightly sleep roughened was anything but soothing, and Callen silently cursed himself. Caller ID. Sam was on high alert, G could hear it in his voice. He was probably half out of bed with a gun in his hand already. Hanging up now would be the quickest way to have the entire team on his doorstep, armed and armored in five minutes. Callen was just going to have to live through the embarrassment of his weakness.  
  
“G?!”  
  
“I’m fine! I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong.” He spoke too quickly.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing.” He couldn’t stop the sigh, so when he added, “Go back to sleep,” he was not surprised when Sam’s voice grew louder as he lowered the phone.  
  
“Woah, woah! Hey, don’t you hang up!”  
  
He put the phone back to his ear, and as if sensing it, Sam’s voice changed. “What’s up?”  
  
“I…” God, why was this so hard? G scrubbed a hand over his face. “I had a nightmare…I…I guess I was a little…freaked for a minute there. I’m fine now. Go back to sleep.”  
  
“I can be there is five minutes.”  
  
Callen had the almost uncontrollable urge to laugh… or cry, the former won out, but he felt the burn of tears too. “No. It’s okay. It was just a nightmare. I’m a big boy.”  
  
"So I'll bring beer," Sam shot back.  
  
Callen chuckled softly. "Really... Just...talk to me for a while, okay?" He bit his lip and swallowed hard.  
  
“You wanna tell me about your nightmare?”  
  
G could hear Sam shifting at the other end of the line, probably settling himself against the pillows. Apparently he thought this conversation warranted getting comfortable for.  
  
“No.”  
  
The truth was the dream had fractured into a million pieces the second Callen had woken, and now he only felt the lingering uneasiness of fear and confusion that always came with that kind of nightmare. Still, he wasn’t sure he would have told Sam even if he could have grasped the elusive dream smoke. Logically he knew it was just his mind trying to sort through his jumble of memories, but that was also what frightened him. He knew some of the details of his missing year, the official report version, but was there more that only he knew? Things trapped in his swiss cheese memory? The blood? Sam shot? He wanted to ask but didn’t know where to start. Every answer required another question to be understood.  
  
He made a sound of frustration but Sam either didn’t hear or chose to ignore it.  
  
“You wanna talk about work today?”  
  
“God no!”  
  
He could hear the smile.  
  
"You want to talk about Bert and Ernie then?"  
  
"The puppets?!"  
  
"Muppets, G. They're Muppets."  
  
"I guess that's one of my missing memories," he replied, drily.  
  
Sam’s voice was conversational as he continued, "So I've been watching them my whole life; they're part of my childhood, and now I'm told that they're gay. The twin beds are either old fashioned or a front for the cameras, and I'm not sure where to go with that."  
  
Callen’s eyebrows rose even though his partner couldn’t see him. "This is what keeps you up at night?" he joked.  
  
"No, that's you, G…Damn. Sorry, that was a low blow."  
  
"It's ok."  
  
"I just meant...” His voice went soft. “I worry about you, G."  
  
"I know." Equally as soft.  
  
Callen took a steadying breath and lowered himself down the kitchen cabinets to sit on the floor, one forearm resting on upturned knees. "So, maybe it's a good thing they've come out. Kids need role models."  
  
"It just resets my idea of what close friendship is, you know? If, what I thought was buddy behavior was actually a lovers vibe, then what does really buddy friendship look like?"  
  
"Us?"  
  
Sam chuckled. "Hardly."  
  
Callen actually looked at the phone in surprise. What he wanted to say was, _What the hell does that mean? ___but he was still too raw from the dream, so instead he said, "How about Big Bird and Snuffy?"  
  
"That's not bad... Always pegged you for a Grover fan though."  
  
"We weren't talking favorite character we were talking friends, and the only one Grover consistently hung out with was the guy he tortured at the restaurant."  
  
"Seriously?! This is the stuff you remember?"  
  
Callen shrugged and smiled, and could hear Sam start to chuckle on the other end of the line. It lightened him, and he gave a soft laugh, and suddenly they were both laughing - at the absurdity of it all; the conversation, the situation, the lost year, and everything in between.  
  
 _I love you. ___Callen felt the words rise up in his throat but clamped them between his teeth. He didn't know if he'd ever said it before – hell, if he'd ever felt it before - but this was not the moment. If, and it was a big if, he ever said it to Sam they would be in the same room, and it wouldn't be after a nightmare had left him weak and vulnerable.  
  
Instead he said, "Thanks... Partner."  
  
Sam's smile was audible. "Anytime. You good?"  
  
"I am. Go back to sleep."  
  
"You should too."  
  
"Nah. It's nearly sunrise.” He glanced out of the kitchen window as he spoke noting the barely visible light of a new day at the edges of the darkness. “I'll just be groggy if I sleep now, and I have Hetty's physical to look forward to today."  
  
"Wanna go for a run then?"  
  
He actually laughed. "No!"  
  
"So how about breakfast? I can still be there in five."  
  
Callen released a breath, feeling calm for the first time in hours. That was Sam’s gift. "Make it fifteen and take a shower."  
  
"Hey, you hinting at something?"  
  
"No, you always smell like the proverbial rose." _Better than! I could bury my face in the hollow of your throat and never leave ___.  
  
“Then I’ll be there in fifteen minutes to pick you up,” he confirmed. “Wear something pretty!” Callen laughed as the line disconnected, and sat for moment smiling. Then he scrambled to his feet and hurried to strip the ruined sheets from his bed and throw himself through the shower because the truth was… he was always conscious of how he looked when Sam was around.  
  



	4. Hold On Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is called to the boatshed to answer questions about the night Callen returned, and it causes him to rethink their relationship.

The nightmare didn’t pass as quickly as the days, but it did change shape, and color, and intensity. Sometimes Sam got shot; other times Callen was searching for something, lost in dark corridors with no end, full of doors that didn’t open. A few versions were kaleidoscope dreams akin to an LSD trip, those innocuous, hideous white pills at the center of those, and still others involved the hospital and men in white lab coats with leather restraints and hypodermic needles. Callen didn’t always wake up in terror or soaked in sweat; sometimes he recognized the dream and woke himself up. Sometimes he was able to go back to sleep… Sometimes he was too afraid to go to sleep at all. He didn’t call Sam again after that first night but he was pretty sure his partner knew anyway. He caught the worried glances shot his way when Sam thought he wasn’t paying attention; the quick once over he received every morning when Sam picked him up for work – he flatly refused to let G travel any other way now – that often included narrowed eyes and pursed lips. His partner had started forcing him to eat breakfast too; making some pithy comment the first time about the biohazard that was Callen’s refrigerator. That morning it had been ‘I-was-running-late-let’s-stop-for-coffee’, which had included half the contents of the coffee shop display case as well. Then it had been, ‘I’ve-heard-of-this-great-café’, and when he felt that lie had run its course, Sam had actually brought him a brown bag from home. He made Callen eat it in the car, which was an event in itself considering Sam’s obsession with his car. Whether he thought he was fooling his partner, Callen couldn’t say, but he let the weak lies pass without comment, knowing it was Sam’s way of worrying…and even enjoying being taken care of. He insisted on paying occasionally, but apart from that small rebellion the two had created an unspoken routine that did indeed set Callen up for the day just as Sam had insisted it would…although perhaps not in the way he had intended.   
  
“So, you wanna head down to the gun range?” Sam asked, as they strolled into NCIS headquarters after a breakfast of burritos and juice.   
  
“Am I allowed to hold a gun yet?” G asked, trying to keep his tone light. The powers-that-be were taking an inordinately – some would say offensively – long time to reinstate him as a full-fledged agent and it was beginning to chip away at his slowly returning confidence.   
  
Sam shot him an evil look. “As long as you have a qualified adult in the passenger seat.”   
  
Callen rolled his eyes and slung his coat over the back of his desk chair. Neither Kensi nor Deeks were present. “Don’t you have anything better to do than babysit me?”   
  
“Nope.”   
  
Callen could have been wrong, but he thought the appraising look Sam was leveling at him had a decidedly challenging undertone. However he was saved from either accepting or refusing by the arrival of their office manager wearing a pleasant expression that didn’t make it to her eyes.   
  
“Good-morning, gentlemen, your plans will have to wait, I am afraid. Mr. Hanna you are required at the boatshed. Mr. Callen, your expertise is required in Ops translating some Polish for Mr. Beal.” She looked blandly from one to the other. Hetty was hiding something – the severity of one or more of the situations, most likely – and she knew her agents saw right through her, but as long as her expression remained placid they would be forced to take her at her word. It was a familiar game.   
  
Callen looked at Sam – the boatshed was never a good place to be summoned to.   
  
Sam looked back – translating for Eric was busy work at best.   
  
“You want to tell us what’s going on, Hetty?” Sam asked.   
  
She smiled guilelessly. “No. Have a good day, gentlemen.”   
  
They watched her walk away.   
  
“Something’s up,” Sam noted, pointlessly.   
  
“Something’s always up,” his partner replied. He gave an exaggerated inhale. “Well, if you will excuse me, I have some Polish translations to waste my time and talent on.”   
  
“Rain check on the gun range?”   
  
“Sure.”   
  
Sam watched him go, noting the almost imperceptible sag of his shoulders as he took his new assignment as a personal insult. Sam couldn’t blame him; the powers-that-be had Callen dangling on a string like a bastardized marionette, jerking him back and forth with the promise of reinstatement – promising to turn him into Pinocchio-the-real-boy – and Sam was beginning to regret his part in their machinations. Perhaps he should have told them to go jump when they had asked him to approach Callen about returning to NCIS. He should have recognized that the order – couched as a polite request – was not to reclaim an agent, but rather to protect an asset…and that asset wasn’t G Callen, it was a highly trained operative with sensitive, classified information in his scrambled brain. It was safer to have the mess contained within their own walls…. And Sam couldn’t really disagree. If it had been anyone other than Callen he would have been saluting right behind the order, but it was Callen… his Callen…and it was killing him. He wanted his partner at his side again. He wanted banter in the car, and sideways glances…in-jokes, and sexual tension. He wanted Callen to remember his life before… their life before… and he was terrified of it, and exhausted by it.   
  
Sam’s mind wandered in and out of the maze of confusion and pending-tension-headache that seemed ever-present these days as he navigated the late morning traffic across town to the boatshed. He and Callen were complicated, and their relationship was complicated, and undefinable, and Callen had already regained most of his memories, most of the facts, and yet what was still missing was everything. All those subtle little moments, and flirtations; the not-quite-hidden looks, and the unspoken parameters they had set for their relationship. He had never realized how much human interaction was instinctual.   
  
He sighed and changed lanes.   
  
  
  
*  
  
They were using the main room in the boatshed; the one with the low beams, and the staircase, and the fridge. He supposed he should have been thankful they weren’t conducting their “interview” in the interrogation room. Of course the quartet of bureaucrats milling about the room had probably turned their collective noses up at the thought of being crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the much smaller room. As it was they had pushed some of the other furniture and equipment to the edges of the room so that they could resituate the table and chairs – a row of chairs facing a single one – and that familiarity in a place where they had none, one that he considered “his”, scratched at his skin.   
  
The woman saw Sam first, and broke into a perfect, practiced smile. “Ah, good-morning, Agent Hanna, thank you for joining us.”   
  
The trio of men – not a uniform among them, Sam noted ruefully – all looked up.   
  
He couldn’t stop the sardonic quirk of his brow. “I wasn’t aware I had a choice.”   
  
Her smile tightened for a fraction of a second before resuming its shiny perfection. “Please -,” she gestured at the single chair on the far side of the table, “- take a seat.”   
  
Recognizing an order when he heard one, Sam resumed his entrance and took the proffered seat. There was a general scraping of chair legs on wooden floor boards, and file folders tapped on the table surface, and then everyone was looking at Sam.   
  
Without preamble, the same woman began, “Agent Hanna, you have been asked here so that we might discuss the night of May 31st, 2013.”   
  
“I’ve already given my statement,” Sam replied. “Three times.”   
  
“This is nothing so formal,” the man without the tie broke in. He smiled easily enough, but looked just a fraction uncomfortable in his suit jacket – psychologist, Sam decided.   
  
“I’m really not sure what else I can add to the statements I have already made.”   
  
“Well perhaps it would help if we just asked you some questions and you answer them as honestly and thoroughly as you can?” Impeccable grey suit, shiny shoes, fake smile -politician!  
  
“And then we can take from your answers what we need.”   
  
_That’s what I’m afraid of! ___Sam kept his expression carefully neutral.  
  
Evidently the others took this as a sign of consent and all glanced at their papers, shuffled a few, and then folded their hands on the table surface.   
  
“Tell me what it was like…”  
  
Sam looked over at the last man; suit, tie, arch expression – pencil pusher with a class or two of psychology during college.   
  
“…the incident with Agent Callen.”   
  
The agent arched a brow at the ridiculous question and choice of words. “The _incident, ___sir?”  
  
“The night Agent Callen resurfaced in your apartment.”   
  
“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘what it was _like ___, sir.”  
  
“Tell me what you felt.”   
  
In Sam’s peripheral vision the real psychologist grimaced.   
  
“Relief.”   
  
With no little gratification, he felt the whole table start at his response. Almost as a single unit they glanced down at the paperwork at their fingertips; no doubt checking the details of the event as if that would explain his answer. The psychologist made a quick note. The pencil pusher made a lot of notes.   
  
It was the politician who was first to speak. He sounded confused. “It was my understanding he was holding a knife?”   
  
Sam inclined his head once.   
  
“Some would say relief is an…unusual emotion to be feeling at that moment,” the woman noted. “G…Agent Callen was standing in my living room. Alive. I could reach out and touch him. I was relieved.”   
  
“Not scared?” The psychologist.   
  
Sam met his gaze unflinchingly. “Only for him.”   
  
More pen scratching.   
  
The fridge hummed.   
  
Water lapped at the outer walls and beneath the floor.   
  
But in his head Sam saw the whole night replay as clearly as if it were happening again.   
  
He didn't leave a porch light on when he knew he'd be out late; it created deeper shadows around the front door for potential attackers to hide in, and ruined his night vision so he entered the house in the dark…and knew immediately something was wrong. It was in the air making it thick and tangible. It prickled at the back of his neck and had him reaching for his gun as he quietly closed the door. He didn't drop his keys in the bowl on the entrance table, but rather pinched each one between his fingers; jagged claws waiting to do damage to his shadowy attacker. He didn't turn on the light.   
  
The living room opened to the left containing a sofa and two armchairs, a coffee table, an entertainment unit and bookshelves. It was a homey space that Sam had spent many hours relaxing in, but now it held the menace of an intruder. The figure wasn't even attempting to hide; just stood there, barely outlined because he had taken the time to close the curtains at the front window, but so still he was almost a part of the decor.   
  
In a matter of seconds Sam had taken his measure; male, approximately five foot ten, one hundred eighty pounds, athletic, knife in his right hand. A professional.   
  
Sam leveled his gun. "Don't move." It was one of those pointless things you always said with no hope of it actually having an effect, yet this time the intruder made no attempt to move. "Drop the knife and put your hands on your head."   
  
He remained motionless.   
  
"How'd you get in here?"   
  
There was a brief, expected silence, and then a somewhat dazed voice murmured, "I helped you hide the spare key."   
  
The bottom fell out of Sam's world. "G?!"   
  
That was when the shadow rushed him; as if the agent had finally found the trigger word. But it had had the opposite effect on Sam - like kryptonite, or a sudden strobe light - and all he could do was absorb the impact of the smaller body as it hit him full force.   
  
He stumbled back despite his superior inches and pounds, and the keys fell from his hand in a musical jingle of metal while the gun went clattering to the floor, skidding away under the coffee table as the two, instead, grappled for Callen’s knife. It didn't much matter because there was no way Sam was going to shoot Callen or gouge his eyes out, not if the man started filleting him like a salmon, but for the time being the feeling did not appear to be mutual.   
  
"G...uugh...it's...me," Sam ground out. He threw his weight sideways and Callen swung like a ragdoll but held on tenaciously; one hand on the knife, the other on Sam's wrist. "G!"   
  
Callen abruptly stopped fighting which threw Sam off balance, and gave the other man the opportunity to gain the upper hand. He shifted his weight and swept Sam's legs out from under him, but as the big guy went down he yanked hard on Callen's sleeve. The fairer head jerked, and the sound of rent fabric added to the thumps and scrapes of bodies hitting the wood floor as the duo fell in a tangle of limbs.   
  
For a moment Sam was winded and could only open his mouth and make awkward sucking noises as he tried in vain to refill his empty lungs. His head had hit too, and bright pinpricks of light danced at the edge of his vision, but still he held on to Callen. Part of him feared if he let go of him now, he would bolt and Sam would never see him again. That thought alone was enough to give Sam the strength he needed to heave up and flip Callen onto his back, pinning him with all of his considerable weight. He banged Callen's wrist once, twice, three times, and he lost his grip on the knife. Sam heard it skitter away across the hardwood floor but he didn't care about the knife. It couldn't hurt him anymore. He looked down at the man beneath him, cataloguing changes, and hurts. He looked like crap. He’d lost weight; his skin was paler, drawn, there were dark circles under his eyes. His hair had grown but was just an unkempt mess on the top of his head; sticking up in odd directions as the owner thrashed and struggled to be released. It was possible he was still wearing the same clothes Sam had last seen him in, but they must have been washed once or twice because Callen didn’t smell like a homeless man. Saureau, the psycho alter-ego, was not a hopeless druggy, nor the type to suffer the indignities of living on the streets, but neither did he have an abundance of friends to lean on. He had been underground for nearly eight months, which begged the question, where had he been living, and how had he been paying for it?   
  
Sam had so many questions, but at that moment he focused only on the answers.   
  
"Your name is G Callen. You're an agent for NCIS - Naval Criminal Investigative Services," he stated. "You're my partner. My best friend. You’re safe now.”   
  
The attacker growled and fought harder.   
  
Sam held on. “Your name is G Callen. You’re an agent for NCIS – Naval Criminal Investigative Services. You’re my partner. My best friend. You’re safe now.”   
  
The body beneath him writhed, very nearly unseating Sam who was inhibited by feelings. G, or rather Saureau, had no such connection to the man he fought, so he fought with all the ferocity of one bent on harm and destruction.   
  
“Your name is G Callen. You’re an agent for NCIS – Naval Criminal Investigative Services. You’re my partner. My best friend…”  
  
“Agent Hanna?”   
  
God what he should have said… _I love you. Please come back to me ___.  
  
“Can we take your silence to indicate you have nothing more to add?”   
  
Sam blinked. All four interviewers were looking at him, but fortunately not yet with the suspicion which would indicate he had been day-dreaming for long.   
  
He wanted to see G.   
  
Pasting a politely bland expression on his dark face, he replied, “No questions, ma-am.”   
  
“Is everyone here satisfied?” she asked, scanning the men on either side.   
  
There was a general shake of heads, pursed lips, raised eyebrows; all signs pointed to a negative. The woman smiled at Sam who was internally leaping to his feet and heading for the door. “We want to thank you for coming in, Agent Hanna. Your testimony has once again been very helpful.”   
  
He thought fleetingly of calling her on her use of the word “testimony” but then an image of Callen’s face flashed into his minds eye – Callen’s body – and the argument fled. He just wanted to see his partner.   
  
He smiled and nodded at them, rose from the chair and beat a hasty retreat… No, he left with a single purpose burning in his veins; find Callen, and hold on tight.   
  



	5. Like A Loaded Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this has taken so long! I have been busy self-publishing a cozy mystery novel on Amazon :) To make up for the delay I am posting two chapters with a third on the way. Stick with me, we're just getting to the good stuff!

Sam had been acting differently since his trip to the boathouse, Callen had noticed. He caught him staring more often; the looks were deeper, more intense as if he were trying to read something in the depths of Callen's brain. Well he was welcome to try; Callen was certainly having no luck of his own. Time was passing but the memories were certainly not flooding back. The most he had managed was a nickname and a few shared jokes; where the coffee maker was and how he drank it.  
  
 _So how do you know Sam is acting different? ___he demanded bitterly. _How the hell would you know?! You don't remember a damn thing about normal or different. ___  
  
But somehow he knew Sam was acting out of character...or rather...more, just more. Besides the looks he was also standing closer, finding excuses to touch him more. There were the innocent brushes as they reached for the same pen or passed in the corridor; and the hand on a shoulder or back as they entered a room together. He had even grasped Callen's hips to shift past him one time; G imagined he could still feel the weight of them there. It was all having a tumultuous effect on him, and not least because through it all he was dying to ask if this was new behavior or old?! Had Sam just gotten fed up waiting for Callen to remember their relationship before and decided to remind him? Or had something changed with Callen's months long absence that had reset Sam's priorities....Or was Callen just projecting his own desires on to otherwise innocent behavior? Because God did he want Sam! He had given up denying it. It seemed like such a waste of his energy to pretend he did not flood with warmth every time Sam stood beside him, or that he didn't look for him all day. And denying it did not stop him from dreaming....and God the dreams. When they weren't full of guns and blood and faceless enemies they were alive with dark skin, sweat slick, and strong, possessive hands. It was sensations more than images but Callen woke with a hammering heart, and a throbbing erection, and a head swimming with unanswered questions. Occasionally he toyed with just asking Sam outright...but he couldn't even decide what he wanted to ask. There was no one question that would cover everything he was confused about, and short of turning it into a therapy session, or binge drinking, he was at a loss. Just once he had considered taking a physical tack - kiss Sam and take his answer from the response - but the idea had unequivocally died upon seeing Sam on the wrestling mat. Beside the mouthwatering appeal of Sam's undulating physique was the certain knowledge those muscles made him the strongest person in their field office; he could quite literally snap G's neck if he took a path Sam was uncomfortable with. In addition he was an excellent marksman, and trained in both hand-to-hand combat and the myriad of more subtle ways to kill people. But mostly it was the thought of the horror and embarrassment on Sam's face when he realized what Callen had been thinking all these weeks. The expression that would lead to distance between them, then awkward silences, stilted conversations, and eventually reassignment. Never knowing what it felt like to kiss Sam was hard enough to carry, but losing him from his life altogether was unthinkable.  
  
A hand at that moment brushed across Callen's shoulders as Sam passed behind his partner's desk to drop a file on Kensi's station.  
  
“You look too serious," Sam accused playfully. "Come shoot guns with me."  
  
Callen arched a sardonic brow. “That seems like an irresponsible suggestion. Aren’t we supposed to be very serious around the guns?”  
  
“Nah. That’s just what we tell the rookies so they’ll leave the fun stuff for us.”  
  
Callen sat back in his chair and allowed himself to openly appraise his partner as he returned to the front of the desk; tight black pants, and that red shirt that may as well have been painted on to his biceps. “You’re in a mood today.”  
  
“So take advantage of me.”  
  
Callen’s mouth went dry.  
  
Sam leaned over the desk, his palms on the spread of papers, his chest brushing the top of the open laptop. His face was just inches from G’s. “Now stop stalling and trust me.”  
  
Something inside the agent fell on its side.  
  
It was true G hadn’t picked up a gun since he had been back, but then he had been extremely busy jumping through all of Hetty’s hoops. Since he wasn’t allowed out in the field it seemed pointless to be worrying about weapons qualifications, but he hadn’t realized he had been actively avoiding the gun range until that moment. Sareau, the alter-ego that had swallowed a year of Callen’s life, had favored knives and other cutting devices over guns; bullets were too easy and not personal enough, he believed. Fists were acceptable when the rage overtook, but guns… Bullets didn’t express anything, didn’t offer an outlet; bullets were for killing not communicating.  
  
Strong fingers suddenly wrapped around his upper arm, biting into the flesh just enough to bring Callen back from his dark thoughts. He gasped a breath as if surfacing from underwater, and looked up to find Sam staring down at him somehow even closer than before.  
  
“Don’t go down the rabbit hole, G,” he warned, low and deep.  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He gave a weak smile, and then swallowed hard.  
  
Sam’s grip gentled on Callen’s arm, and his thumb started tracing lazy patterns against the fabric of G's shirt. His eyes were fixated on it, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was his own hand moving.  
  
"Good. Because I am hardly white rabbit material." It was barely a joke said in that soft, intimate way.  
  
Callen licked his lower lip.  
  
Sam’s eyes caught and followed the movement.  
  
"Even though I'd follow you anywhere?" G dared.  
  
Sam's mouth twitched. "You think I'm late...for a very important date?"  
  
The thumb stroked on, rhythmic, hypnotic.  
  
The air was so heavy Callen's lungs ached as he drew breath. "I think you are."  
  
Unreadable emotion rippled across Sam's face, and somehow without moving he seemed to pull away. "It wouldn't be at the gun range, would it?"  
  
“That wasn't what I was thinking, no." He trembled with the honesty of his words.  
  
This time the smile was there. Sam leaned in for one moment. "Good," he replied, and abruptly moved away.  
  
Callen swayed in his chair, endlessly thankful that he was still sitting down. His mind was tumbling over itself trying to untangle feelings from memories. He inhaled a steadying breath.  
  
From the edge of their office, Sam looked back over his shoulder, a picture of his confidant self. “Are you coming?”  
  
 _Holy…shit! A moment more and I might have been! ___  
  
Callen forced himself to rise – careful to hold on to the arms of the chair for as long as possible – and followed his partner with an unfathomable sinking feeling.  
  
  
  
*  
  


The gun room and shooting range were both empty when the two agents got there, which was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand Callen didn’t have to endure any lingering small talk while the individual waited to see if he choked…or worse, ran away altogether, while on the other hand it meant there was nothing to distract Callen from the pounding of his own heart.  
  
Sam worked in silence, hands efficient and sure as he took weapons and ammunition from the various locked containers around the room.  
  
Callen tested himself trying to name each one, picture the schematic in his head, remember what kind of bullets each one took, and whether he could remember firing one. He was pleasantly surprised by how much he did remember until he reminded himself they were guns, and who remembered firing guns in real scenarios, and couldn’t remember if he’d ever kissed the man he was attracted too?  
  
His sigh was audible, and Sam looked up, misinterpreting it. “It’s like riding a bike,” he said, soothingly.  
  
Callen quirked a brow. “A very deadly, don’t-get-a-second-chance-if-you-screw-up bike.”  
  
Sam grinned, and headed for the interior door. “Exactly…So don’t screw up!”  
  
“Thank you,” he murmured, trailing behind. “Thank you for that.”  
  
Sam was actually chuckling as he laid the weapons in a neat row across the ledge of a booth halfway along the row. He picked up the first one and handed it to Callen.  
  
“So, this one’s yours. I got it out of moth balls for you.”  
  
Slowly, as if it might burn or bite him, Callen took the metal object from the agent’s hand. He was surprised when it wasn’t cold against his skin. "This was my gun before?"  
  
“One of them."  
  
Callen tested the weight in his palm, curling his fingers around the handle and sighting down the barrel. "It doesn't feel familiar."  
  
Sam gave a half raise of his shoulder. "Maybe that's good."  
  
Despite the joke about disuse it was clear to see the gun had been well looked after during G’s absence, and he instinctively knew it was Sam’s doing. He had a sudden picture of him sitting in the weapons storage room they had just exited, taking the gun apart and laying out the pieces in precise order, oiling and polishing each one before putting them back together. That was how Sam was. He took things down to their basic elements with care and precision, worked them until they were the best that they could be, and then put them back together in the most efficient order possible. With a deliberate exhale Callen mentally gave himself over to Sam’s dedicated hands.  
  
He thought the moment demanded words, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. He took the ear protectors in silence and allowed them to muffle the rest of the world as he took up a shooting stance his body seemed to find automatically; nothing wrong with his muscle memory, apparently. As he put on the large plastic eye protectors, Sam rounded the divider to a station of his own, out of sight.  
  
Callen wasn't prepared for the sound or the recoil; he jumped and the shot went wild, winging the paper target one station over.  
  
Sam's face appeared around the partition, eyebrow cocked sardonically behind the protective glasses.  
  
"You know I can hit my own targets, G," he said drily.  
  
“At least one of us can," Callen replied, switching the gun to the other hand so he could shake out an imaginary cramp in his fingers.  
  
“You okay?" Sam asked, much more seriously.  
  
“Evidently NOT like riding a bike," was the rueful response.  
  
“Nah, that's just how you shoot."  
  
“You're a funny guy."  
  
Behind his screen Sam put down his own weapon and returned to Callen’s side. “You’re out of practice,” he stated, because neither one of them wanted him to say “you’re nervous”. “Let me see your stance.”  
  
Feeling slightly ridiculous, Callen resumed his feet apart, open framed stance. He squirmed as Sam openly appraised him.  
  
“Yeah, your body’s good.”  
  
Callen willed himself not to flush.  
  
“You’ve got the training basics. You’ve just forgotten the veteran tricks that ease it all up.” He beckoned to his partner. "Come here.”  
  
Callen’s feet felt like lead as he moved to stand in front of Sam, his back to the broad, red chest.  
  
Sam’s fingers closed over G’s shoulder and pulled him back until there was no more than a hairs breadth between them. If either one breathed out too hard they would brush against each other. His fingers didn’t release, and his breath brushed Callen’s ear as he added, unnecessarily, “Close."  
  
 _Shit. ___  
  
His voice was low and hypnotic. "Your problem is you want it to much."  
  
 _Fuck, in fact. ___  
  
“You gotta relax and breathe."  
  
 _Never gonna happen with you touching me like that. ___  
  
Sam's hands moved over his body, gentle and strong at the same time, adjusting here, reinforcing there. He made a noise of approval when Callen's body became pliable, but the truth was it acquiesced of its own accord; Callen was helpless to resist. He could feel all the sensations all pooling in places south…places he should definitely not be accessing in the workplace…with Sam who he wasn’t even sure of yet….when anyone could walk in… But Sam was either oblivious or didn’t care.  
  
“You have to keep your frame tight,” he was purring - there was no other word for it. “Here -,” he wrapped an arm around the front of Callen’s shoulders, pulling him flush against his chest, “-and here,” a hand curled over Callen’s hipbone and liquid fire rushed to his groin.  
  
 _Well, if you wanted a sign this may be it. ___  
  
"What are you doing?" he managed, not sure whether to be amused, turned on, or confused... He settled on all three.  
  
"Teaching you to shoot." His voice rumbled against Callen's ear.  
  
"I...uh don't think you should pursue it as an alternate career."  
  
Sam's head dipped a fraction lower, closer; his cheek almost resting against Callen's as he purred, "You don't like my methods?"  
  
“They are...a little counter...um…productive to...concentration... Not to mention a...serious ethics violation."  
  
He was squirming under Sam's touch; struggling between pulling away and pushing closer.  
  
“Since when have you cared about ethics...-” The grin in his voice was unmistakable, and evil, "-when it's getting the job done?"  
  
Callen's laugh was breathless. He pressed back against Sam's unyielding body. Two could play at that game. "Only feels like half a job to me."  
  


"Well you have to work with me," he purred. "Shift your grip. Hold it like you mean it."  
  
“Like it’s a loaded weapon you mean?"  
  
“Like it could go off at any minute."  
  
 _Fuck! ___  
  
Sam..."  
  
The crash against the interior door was enough to rattle the panes of glass in the windows, and Sam and G sprung apart as if a bomb had gone off.  
  
“Dammit, Deeks!” Kensi’s voice barked in annoyance as her figure appeared in the doorway. “If you can’t walk in them, they’re not cool!”  
  
She was looking back over her shoulder, and her partner’s shaggy silhouette could just be made out through the frosted glass.  
  
Callen looked at Sam. _Did they see us? ___he asked silently. _Did Deeks really trip and save us? Or did he see our outlines through the glass, and buy us a few seconds? Or was it Kensi? She isn’t above tripping Deeks to stall for time… Or maybe they had both been watching the entire time and just figured if it went any further their coworkers would both need a change of clothes just to leave the gun range! ___  
  
“I will have you know these shoes are highly sort after,” Deeks shot back in his best haughty voice.  
  
“I didn’t know there were that many clowns in LA!” Kensi turned to look at the other two, still frozen in place, unnatural in their silence. “Hetty wants us upstairs ASAP,” she said, and withdrew herself from the room, shoving Deeks along in front of her like a rowdy younger brother. “Come on, Bozo, shift your clown car into higher gear.”  
  
“You know clowns have big shoes,” Deeks voice could be heard fading into the distance, “and you know what that means!”  
  
The slap along the side of his head echoed back.  
  
The atmosphere hung heavy around the remaining duo who stood stationary, and awkwardly silent, for several long moments after. Each one was wondering if the interruption had been welcome or ill-timed; each one was wondering how far the moment would have progressed without it.  
  
Callen moved first. He had always been the twitchy one next to Sam’s serene control. But his movements were jerky and awkward as he tried for cool and missed it by a mile.  
  
“I wonder what Hetty wants?” _Too bright! Fake! Fake! ___  
  
“Nothing good,” Sam replied voice still low but now injected with a hard edge.  
  
Callen dared steal a look at him; he was grinding his teeth. _Come on, Callen! You can’t hide from this forever! ___“Sam?”  
  
The black hand shot out and grasped Callen’s pale one, closing them both around the handle of Callen’s gun. “Not now. Not here.”  
  
G swallowed and nodded, and the hand slipped away.  
  
It took very little time to secure the weapons and unused ammunition back in their respective storage cabinets, and then Agents Hanna and Callen were headed up to Ops as cool and impassive as expected.  
  



	6. Breathing Responsibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the next one, as promised.

Chapter 6 – Breathing Responsibility

Garnet is alive. That was what Hetty had said forty-five minutes ago, "Garnet is alive" and then she had given a briefing, and there were a lot of other words. Nell had spoken at length, and Kensi had asked questions; Callen remembered seeing their lips move. There had been images on the main screen of faces that Callen should have known, but all Callen could hear was that single phrase; Garnet is alive. Garnet is alive. And then the roar of blood in his head that obscured everything else. He wasn't even sure if anyone had asked him anything; he certainly didn't remember answering anything. He supposed they all must have been thinking about him, however; straining not to turn and out rightly stare.  
  
Garnet was alive, which meant Saureau would soon have to be too.  
  
Callen closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the concrete. Back down the rabbit hole, just as Sam had said, only this time he may not find his way back.  
  
He heard the door to the courtyard open and knew instinctively it was Sam so he left his eyes shut and tried to focus on the sounds that signaled another person; footsteps, breathing, the rustle of fabric, anything to occupy his mind.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"No."  
  
"You wanna talk about it?"  
  
"No."  
  
"You want to be alone?"  
  
"Not from you."  
  
He heard his partner settling in, scraping the fabric of his shirt against the rough brick of the wall where he leaned.  
  
Silence fell between them.  
  
Seagulls wheeled overhead, squawking at each other and the people below. Cars motored by on the street. Callen liked to think he could hear the crash of waves on the sand, but it was probably his imagination, the beach was too far away. In all it was a surprisingly peaceful space for the middle of LA, and Callen wondered fleetingly how long he would be allowed to stay here? Sam at least seemed content to keep silent vigil, and that was really all Callen wanted these days; a peaceful space with his partner at his side.  
  
He risked opening his eyes and jumped to find Sam watching him. Their gazes locked and held in silence. Callen had so much welling up inside him that it swirled in chaos around his head, and he suspected his eyes were as unreadable and desperate as his memories. If he opened his mouth it would all come spilling out of him; unconnected, messy words with no beginning or end. Word vomit. The sort of thing that onlookers stepped back from to keep their shoes clean, so that it didn't invade their senses, or provoke an involuntary response.  
  
Blessedly the door opened and Nell stood awkwardly half-in and half-out of the building, clearly realizing she was interrupting something.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said automatically. "I've been looking for you. Hetty asked me...um," She was looking specifically at Callen but her eyes kept darting to his immovable sentry as if she needed his permission to step closer.  
  
"Hetty asked you to find me so I can go over Garnet's dossier and use my memories of him to fill in the blanks," Callen intoned, actually managing not to snort when he used the word memories.  
  
"Everything he knows is already on file," Sam said, his words falling like anvils.  
  
Nell seemed to feel them shake the ground at her feet. "I can buy you some time," she offered, but she was now talking to Sam. "Say I haven't found you yet...?"  
  
But Callen heaved himself to his feet with a deep sigh. “It's okay. I'm going."  
  
"G?"  
  
Callen looked back but there was nothing for Sam to say so silence hung between them cloaking the space like wet blankets.  
  
Nell fidgeted nervously and made a couple of useless gestures over her shoulder. "I'm going to...uh...go..." She ducked back through the door and let it close with an audible thump in her hurry to clear the area.  
  
The agents stood staring at each other for another long moment.  
  
"Come over tonight," Callen said finally.  
  
"I'll drive you home."  
  
"I don't know how long this will take me."  
  
"I'll wait."  
  
And didn't that just sum up their relationship in two short words!  
  
Callen nodded, blew out a breath, and wrenched the door open.  
  
Sam stood a while longer reluctant to watch his partner make the long trek up to Ops, his shoulders and spine straightening by degrees as he screwed himself up to relive the worst year of his life. It was just never going to end, Sam thought. Every time he thought they had cleared the last hurdle and could begin again, another obstacle was thrown in their path. A constant reminder of the guilt they each held close; guilt that, in truth, neither of them had a right too. The whole Garnet operation had been a disaster, albeit of epic proportions, but still nothing more than an unfortunate, unpredictable incident. He had read Callen's report on that final day; a statement taken while he was still in the hospital. It had contained some of the facts - broad details that covered enough to gel with Sam's own report, but what it lacked would have filled a report of its own. It was the first, and only, time Sam was grateful for those fateful little pills. They had stolen so many of Callen's memories, but that day was one Sam hoped he never got back.  
  
The door creaked and Nell was again hovering uncertainly in the doorway.  
  
"You can tell Hetty he's reporting as ordered," he said sharply.  
  
"Yeah I don't think I will, if it's all the same to you," she replied easily.  
  
He looked up and winced, rubbing his hand across his forehead. "Sorry. Not your problem."  
  
"Oh, I don't know." She eased out of the building and mirrored his position against the wall, staring, for a moment, over the wall at the roofline across the street. "He's your partner. I was your partner. It's like an exclusive club membership."  
  
Sam smirked. "Can't imagine a club that would have both of you as members."  
  
Silence fell for several long minutes...until Nell's voice broke it.  
  
"He'll make it," she promised.  
  
He looked sideways at her. "How can you be sure?"  
  
She met his gaze unflinchingly, and he was reminded with a start what a strong partner she had been. "You won't let it be any other way."  
  
"That's a hell of a responsibility."  
  
"I may not know you as well as he does....did -," they both winced at the reminder, "- but I like to think I have a little insight into Sam Hanna, and you breath responsibility for the people you love. If there is breath in your body you won't let us fall...him most of all." "Why him?" He didn't know why he felt the need to poke the open wound.  
  
She gave him an 'are you seriously asking?!' look, and replied simply, "Because you love him...and his fall would break you."  
  
Sam's indrawn breath was shaky because he knew she was right. He loved him, and it was killing him.  
  
He turned his head without lifting it from the bricks. "Sometimes I miss having you as my partner."  
  
She smiled. "And sometimes I miss having you as my partner."  
  
"We're both better off, aren't we," it wasn't a question.  
  
She scrunched up her nose and nodded.  
  
He gave another heavy, somewhat watery sigh. "It's just you're so uncomplicated."  
  
Nell looked at him wih a frown between her brows but a half-smile on her lips. "Huh," she said in feigned wonder. "So I have you fooled too." Then she threw an enigmatic smile over her shoulder as she walked away.  
  
  
  
*  
  


"Okay, so I am...done," Deeks announced closing his laptop with a flourish. "And I think I have earned a drink or...seven. Any takers?"  
  
"Are you paying?" Kensi asked.  
  
"I may be persuaded to lubricate you in some fashion," he drawled with an indecently wide smile.  
  
She gritted her teeth and wagged a finger in the air. "And it is a testament to the day I have had that I am still going to say yes!"  
  
There was a flurry of movement; chair legs scraping, desk drawers banging, fluttering papers, and jackets swung through the air. Then eyes fell on Sam who remained relatively motionless.  
  
"You coming, Sam?" Kensi asked.  
  
"I'm not done here," he replied, without looking up from the notes he was hand-writing. Above him the other two exchanged a loaded look, and Deeks gave a short nod of agreement, his usually cheerful face serious.  
  
"We got stuff we can finish up," he said, dropping his bag back down beside his desk. "You know I only half-assed that last report."  
  
"Or three," Kensi teased, rounding her desk.  
  
Sam looked up at them with a small smile. "Would you two get out of here!"  
  
They both stopped.  
  
"Thank you very much for the show of solidarity, now go home."  
  
"He's our partner too," Kensi said, serious.  
  
"Which is why he would probably prefer you were gone when he comes down."  
  
Kensi looked to Deeks who bent to retrieve his bag once again.  
  
Sam smiled, gentle but genuine. "He knows...and so do I."  
  
Still she hesitated until her partner put his hand to her shoulder and half-shoved, half-guided her towards the door. "You have our numbers if you need us," he said, making sure to catch the big guy's eye.  
  
"And I am never going to call it!"  
  
"Good. As long as that's understood." Then to Kensi, "Come on, gorgeous, I intend to use your legs to score us some free drinks."  
  
"These legs will kick your ass, Deeks!"  
  
"Hey that might score us some drinks too. We'll keep it as a backup plan. Hey, Eric, you coming?"  
  
Sam listened to the inane babble carry the trio out the door and then blessed silence reigned. It was so quiet the patter of footsteps on the stairs brought his head up a few minutes later.  
  
"Deeks is tormenting Kensi at the bar," he told Callen by way of invitation.  
  
The other man shrugged and made an aimless gesture towards Hetty's office. "I still have some stuff to cross reference."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"I don't know how long I'll be."  
  
"Okay."  
  
They stared at each other a moment longer, then Callen strode away and Sam picked up his pencil.  
  
  
  
*  
  


"Mr Hanna, I have not authorized any overtime." Hetty's imperious voice made Sam jump in the twilight silence of the office.  
  
She came towards him in her unwrinkled navy pant suit, and he wondered for a second if he had fallen asleep and she was just arriving for a new day. But the closer she got, the easier it was to see the strain on her face, the dark circles under her eyes. It was oddly comforting.  
  
"I'm salaried, Hetty," he grumbled.  
  
"And you've earned it for the day," she retorted.  
  
"I'll go when he's ready."  
  
Her eyes moved automatically to the stairs although he doubted she had forgotten Callen was still up there. Still she made a noise in the back lf her throat, and said, "Did I ever tell you about Clark Gable?"  
  
His mouth twitched. "No, I don't think you have."  
  
She nodded as if coming to a decision that he knew she had made before opening her mouth; Hetty was always three steps ahead. "Well, it was the summer of...ah, but that gives too much away. Let's just say it was the summer, and we were both young." To Sam's surprise she then turned and walked away. Halfway to her office she looked back over her shoulder. "You don't expect me to finish this without a drink, do you?" Her mouth twitched, and her eyes took on a faraway look. "But that is another story...and not one you'll hear from me....Come along, Mr. Hanna, we need to be at least three shots in before we reach Budapest!"  
  
Sam grinned and licked his lips as he heaved himself out of his chair. Why not? Hetty's stories were legendary, even if no-one was actually sure how much was true, and something told him being a little drunk later might not be such a bad idea.  
  



	7. The Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a crappy day and some alcohol Callen and Sam wonder if they have any excuses left.

### Chapter 7 – The Moment

Thanks to Hetty's scotch, Clark Gable, and Budapest, Sam was pleasantly loose by the time Callen came downstairs. He stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs just watching the scene before him, listening to the low voices and Sam's deep chuckle. It warmed the places that had grown cold and stiff while he had been upstairs connecting people to places and deeds. He felt some of the ice of guilt and faulty memory thaw and slide away leaving him lighter and warmer.  
  
Hetty looked up. "Ah, Mr. Callen. Quitting time?"  
  
Sam turned and their eyes met.  
  
"Yes, ma-am," he replied, and for a second it was a year ago; his tone, his walk, his sense of being exactly where he was meant to be. It sent a new surge of well-being through him, and as Sam rose to tower beside him Callen knew the moment had come. "You ready, big guy?"  
  
Sam seemed to swell at the sound of the old pet name on his partners lips. "Ready when you are."  
  
There was so much meaning in those few words and they both seemed to hear it. They bid Hetty goodnight, retrieved their stuff from their office, and left the building shoulder-to-shoulder.  
  
Once outside, the night air on his face, Callen glanced at his partner. "Are you okay to drive?"  
  
"Yeah... I think so. I only had two...I think." He pinched the bridge of his nose as if the pain would clear his head. "Damn that stuff is strong. How does that little body...?"  
  
"Please don't finish that sentence." Callen grinned. "Shall I call a cab?"  
  
"Nah." Sam reached into the pocket at his hip and tossed his keys to the other man. "You can drive."  
  
Callen stopped dead. He could drive? As in he could drive the Charger? Sam's pride and joy? The thing he loved best in the world? The baby he never let anyone drive. Callen could drive that? He looked down into his upturned palm, and sure enough there were the keys innocuously laying there, taunting him with their importance. Holy shit! This really was the moment.  
  
"You forget what the car looks like?" Sam called over the roof of his black beauty.  
  
Callen laughed. "You _have ___had too much!"  
  
The dark face gentled; warm and open thanks to the scotch. "It's good to hear you laugh. I've missed it."  
  
"I feel...more like me." It felt like a revelation, even to himself. "I thought I'd feel drained after staring at that stuff all day, but...I don't know. Somewhere in there I started to enjoy the puzzle; connecting the names and dates and places. I remembered stuff. Little stuff, but it was work. Real work…and it felt good." He gave a self-conscious shrug. "I don't know. Everyone wanted me to remember. Then they told me to forget...."  
  
Sam gestured one way and then the other as he said, "Think about it. Don't think about it. It's all psychological guessing games anyway. You're better off without it...You're better off sticking with me."  
  
"I've always thought so."  
  
They smiled at each other over the roof of the car for longer than necessary, until finally Callen said, "I never pegged you for a sentimental drunk."  
  
Sam grinned mischievously. "Oh this is just me. I'm not that kind of drunk."  
  
"Oh? What kind are you?"  
  
"I have a new bottle of scotch and a six pack in the car. Take me home and find out."  
  
  
  
*  
  


Callen was glad he was driving so that he had something to concentrate on rather than think. Thinking was dangerous. There was the myriad of things that could go wrong and result in damage to Sam's precious Charger; there was Sam's last comment back at headquarters, "Take me home and find out" which could not be interpreted as anything other than a sexual come on surely, unless it couldn't; and there was Sam himself. His large frame was sunk low in the passenger seat, relaxed and silent but not asleep, apparently content to watch the late night Los Angeles streets go by. In that position his knees touched the dashboard, and his shoulders stretched from cool glass to almost brushing Callen's own. He simply filled every available space, and if not for the need for concentration as the car traversed the always busy streets, Callen would have been consumed by awareness of his friend. As it was, by the time he parked the Charger at the curb in front of his house, his whole body was thrumming with anticipation anyway.  
  
As the engine cut off, Sam reached into the backseat and withdrew a brown bag wrapped bottle and a six pack of beer. So he hadn't been kidding about that, at least. Good, because by now Callen felt that he could use some courage, dutch or otherwise.  
  
They entered the house in silence. Callen locked the door and dropped the keys in a china bowl meant for just that purpose. Sam placed the drinks on the table and went to the kitchen in search of glasses. Every noise sounded too loud and jarring against the unnatural quiet. Callen hung up his jacket; Sam had left his in the car. Sam returned with the glasses, opened the scotch and poured a measure into each. Only when they were placed on the mismatched coasters did the pair stop and look at each other; the scene was set, now for the players.  
  
It felt inordinately long before Callen made himself move towards the table, but was probably only a second or two. He was aware of Sam’s eyes following his every move; predatorial and devouring, hooded and intense. It made his skin hot, and his hands tingle…and it made him hard. He shifted involuntarily, the drag of his growing erection on the tight fabric of his clothes a torture.  
  
Sam’s eyes dropped to the movement and flared with lust.  
  
“Are you hungry?” Callen asked, with no idea why he was trying for normalcy.  
  
His partner nodded silently.  
  
“Shall we eat?”  
  
Sam’s head shook from side-to-side like a big cat.  
  
Callen swallowed.  
  
His erection swelled.  
  
He stooped to pick up a glass from the table, but hesitated when the other remained untouched. "You're not drinking?"  
  
Sam looked him straight in the eye. “I've had enough for now."  
  
Callen glanced down and up again, mostly for something to do. "Well now I just feel awkward."  
  
"So give it back,” Sam challenged.  
  
Callen threw the contents into the back of his throat and held the glass out to Sam.  
  
He took it carefully from Callen's fingers and returned it to the coaster with a barely audible click. Then he stepped in closer.  
  
Callen's breath was ragged, and his heart fluttered manically in his chest like a wild bird trapped in a cage.  
  
Sam inched closer, the heat from his body suddenly suffocating.  
  
"Have we ever done this before?" Callen gasped out.  
  
Sam stopped. "No."  
  
"So this is new...since..." He didn't want to say the words and bring Saureau and Garnet into the moment, but fortunately Sam understood.  
  
"No."  
  
Callen frowned, thoughtful and confused, his eyes on Sam’s broad, red chest because his face, so close, was distracting. "I've been trying to remember but...I can't.” He rubbed at an eyebrow with his fingertips. “It is such a strange feeling to…have feelings with no history. To not know whether you’re different, or the same, or…” He looked up and let Sam see the bewilderment in his eyes. “Or whether the other person even wants you.”  
  
Sam lifted his hand and dragged his thumb over Callen’s lower lip. “What do you want to know?”  
  
“Do you want me?”  
  
His eyes snapped to Callen’s. “More with every passing minute.”  
  
“Did you want me before?”  
  
“I burned with it.”  
  
“Did I want you this badly?”  
  
The room seemed to have closed in around them forcing their voices to a hush of secrets; slowing Sam’s fingers to feather light brushes of skin-on-skin. They danced along his partner’s jawline, down his throat, and across his collarbones, dipping just below the fabric of his t-shirt. Sam’s eyes following them with fascination.  
  
“I don’t know,” he replied. When he looked up there was a flash of the usual, arrogant Sam there. “How badly do you want me?”  
  
Callen arched a brow. "Someone in need of a stroke to their ego?"  
  
"Not my ego, no."  
  
Callen’s cock jumped, and they were standing so close Sam felt it against his leg. He pressed closer, knowing he was revealing evidence of his own desire, but the catch in his partner’s breath was worth it.  
  
But still Callen persisted. "Then why have we never...?"  
  
Sam sighed heavily and released him, retreating to sit on the edge of the couch so that he could think clearly. He scrubbed his face with his hands and tried to ignore the screaming of his body that demand he take Callen hard and fast on the nearest available surface.  
  
"We're partners,” he began eventually. “Best friends. It's a hard line to cross, and nearly impossible to come back from. Fraternization is 'strongly discouraged' by NCIS. Our bosses would frown on it...maybe worse. Our coworkers would tease us unmercilessly. Not to mention in our line of work those kinds of attachments can be hazardous. So...take your pick."  
  
Callen was nodding more and more dejectedly as his partner spoke until his head hung and his eyes closed. He now felt abandoned and vulnerable standing there without Sam’s all-encompassing presence.  
  
"But I'm lying, aren't I?!" Sam continued, and G looked up. "It all factors in, no doubt, but none of it is the reason why we haven't crossed that line." Silence. "We're afraid...To try and fail."  
  
“Do you think we’d fail?”  
  
“Depends what we were trying for.”  
  
G nodded thoughtfully. "We're hard men to live with…I have almost no memories.”  
  
“I rarely forget anything.”  
  
“I hate your health shakes.”  
  
“I hate your taste in music.”  
  
“I can be completely single minded.”  
  
“Me too.”  
  
“I _hate ___being wrong.”  
  
“Me too.”  
  
G’s voice dropped. "I don't know how to let anyone in."  
  
"I don't like giving up control."  
  
They were staring at each other; the air once again thick enough to cut.  
  
Callen released a breath that sounded like a mirthless laugh. “Mr. Navy Seal and the nameless orphan don’t exactly match up on paper, do they?!”  
  
Sam’s smile twitched. “Sounds like a children’s book.”  
  
"So we're agreed?" Callen started towards the couch only stopping when his legs brushed Sam's knees. "You're going to stay the night."  
  
Sam's legs parted and a hand came up, one finger hooking through Callen's belt-loop and tugging him another step forward. "And if this turns out to be a huge mistake?"  
  
"Well..." Callen placed his hand on Sam's shoulder, pushing him back into the couch as his own knee lowered to the cushions beside Sam's hip. "We've both been drinking." He shifted his weight and straddled Sam's lap. It took all his will power to keep talking and not grind down into the stiffness he found there, or to plunge forward and lose himself in the parted lips. "If...if we regret it in the morning we can just pretend we were too drunk to remember."  
  
Sam tipped his head. His always dark eyes were black with desire; they flashed, teasing and challenging. Yet the fingers now gripping Callen's hips were white knuckled with the effort of not flipping the smaller man on to his back and ravaging him. "That's not a bad plan."  
  
"But I should warn you..." Callen's shift of weight caused their fabric covered cocks to rub against one another and his breath hitched; his voice cracked.  
  
There was bass in Sam's exhale, and the fingers bit deeper.  
  
"I've only had one drink."  
  
Sam's eyes dropped to Callen's mouth. His voice was no more than a rumble of bass and breath. "Maybe you're a light weight."  
  
"Maybe..."  
  
But Sam was done talking. He slipped his hand around the back of his partner's neck and urged him forward. "C'mere."  
  



	8. Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Callen finally have sex

### Chapter 8 - Finally

For a minute they fought a silent battle of wills, easing forward and then darting back, each one daring the other to make that first contact; neither willing to acquiesce control. That last inch was the biggest distance they had ever traversed. But then Sam growled and surged up, and the taste of him exploded on Callen's tongue, all heat, and spice, and Hetty's whiskey. His hand wrapped around the back of Callen's neck, gloriously possessive, each finger a point of heat that melted the muscles beneath. His tongue swiped across Callen's lips and they opened for him without hesitation, his own tongue reaching forward to draw more of the Sam flavor into his mouth. If his memory had been foggy before, it was nothing to the kaleidoscope it shattered into at that first taste of Sam. His fingers were white knuckling the back of the couch and the fabric at Sam's shoulder, strange little mewling noises he had never heard himself make before breaking involuntarily from his throat.   
  
Sam was being undone by those noises, and he had to force his hands to release their death grip of his partner's neck and hip. Instead he gathered the smaller man into his arms, wrapping his powerful arms around the writhing muscles and grinding the body down into his lap. God it felt so good. The friction, the heat, the weight of him.   
  
Callen tore his mouth away to gasp for breath, his head falling back exposing his throat to Sam's mouth. He wantonly rode Sam's lap, using the back of the couch for leverage, and groaned when he felt teeth and tongue on his skin.   
  
"Sam..." It was half gasp, half groan; a plea and an exclamation all at once. One hand moved to the back of Sam's head, but the smooth skin left nothing for Callen to grip. He needed two hands to hold on, but feared it he let go of the couch he would spin away into nothing.  
  
Sam sucked hard on the join between neck and shoulder, and Callen cried out.   
  
"Too many clothes," Sam growled, and yanked G's t-shirt up and over his head, the ball of fabric falling forgotten immediately. He feasted his eyes on the pale chest he had seen many times before, but this time his hands followed his gaze, dragging trails up and down the muscles, marking it as his. He leaned forward and swiped his tongue over one pink nipple. Callen's back arched; a broken sound on his lips. Sam licked again, and then placed his mouth over the whole thing, both broad hands splayed across his partner's back while he suckled.   
  
Callen's breath was gusting ragged and shallow; his fingers clenching and unclenching in the couch fabric. They wanted to touch Sam; splay over his body, absorb the heat, stroke the satin smoothness of every inch of him, but it felt like surrendering and Callen struggled.   
  
Whether he sensed the distraction or craved the reciprocation, Sam stilled and tipped his head to look at the man above him, his chin on Callen's chest.   
  
"G? You okay?"   
  
Callen looked into his eyes, pupils blown passion wide. He could feel Sam's chest heaving, and the ever present press of his erection against Callen's own inner thigh, and yet he had stopped. He was completely still beneath Callen although it must have been killing him to be so.   
  
_He loves me, ___Callen thought, and emotion so great it was painful swelled in his chest and burned the backs of his eyes.  
  
A frown etched Sam's forehead. "Mistake?" The regret was evident in his tone.   
  
Callen's fingers were unsteady as they traced the planes of Sam's face, smoothing away the concern. "No," he said, simply. "Kiss me."   
  
This time when their mouths met it was with less urgency and more ease… It was amazing that something so new could have become so familiar so quickly. But their lips slid, tongues stroked, all languid and sensual, no bumped noses or clashing teeth.   
  
Sam shifted forward on the couch, miraculously moving them both without unseating Callen, and twined one arm around his back, one hand cupping the back of his head. With a lift and a twist he brought them both down to the couch, breaking the kiss and pulling his hands free at the last second, and trailing them over his lover’s hair and temple and jawline.   
  
Callen looked up at him, amazed to see such wonder in the other man's eyes. He thought the pressing weight of Sam along the length of his body should have felt claustrophobic, should have made him feel trapped and vulnerable, but if it did it was in the most delicious way. He wanted to writhe and feel that hard body bear down, feel the thick thigh muscles press up against his aching erection; he wanted to feel so trapped it would not be a weakness to submit.   
  
Sam kissed him again, just a leisurely quest of lips followed by the drag of his thumb. "God the taste of you," he growled.  
  
Callen's insides twisted. "So what now?"   
  
The smile was a leer. "I have some ideas."   
  
"But we've never..."   
  
Sam frowned in confusion.   
  
Callen hated himself, but pressed, "So...other...men...?"   
  
At once Sam's expression cleared, and he dipped into the hollow of Callen's throat, tonguing and sucking until the man arched beneath him. "Just because I've never done something doesn't mean I don't know how," he said, scanning across Callen's eyes on his way to his right earlobe. His breath tickled, hot and moist, as he purred, "I have been fantasizing about this for weeks."   
  
Callen groaned, at the words as well as the sensations on his ear, and ground his hips up into Sam's. "Me...uh...too."   
  
"Yeah?" Sam stole a look. "Tell me."   
  
Callen was frozen for a moment, talking was not in his repertoire; he did not confide anything easily but Sam knew that and his smile gentled.   
  
"Did I do this?" he asked, tasting the underside of Callen's jaw.   
  
Callen hissed. "Yes."   
  
He twisted his head and sucked on Callen's bobbing Adam's apple. "How about this?"   
  
"Ye...yes."   
  
Callen felt Sam shifting his weigh, the couch cushions dipping and rising, and suddenly there was a hand cupping his erection through his jeans, pressing and kneading, and he had to breathe through his mouth.   
  
"How about that?" Sam whispered against his skin.   
  
"Fuck...yes..." And a new need took over. "You weren't wearing so much," Callen said, heaving handfuls of red shirt up Sam's torso, snagging on bulging muscles, catching on the watch at his wrist.   
  
Sam braced himself on one hand and helped remove the shirt, then lowered to his elbow to release the catch of his watch and discard it in a tinkle of metal. His smooth chest rubbed against Callen's and the latter was arrested by everything at once. The color of it - warm brown contrasting with his pallor; the shine of it - like rich silk; the undulating terrain of muscles, and the valleys they created. Sam had stilled in the action of undoing his pants - up on one knee, the other leg braced on the floor - and looked down at Callen.   
  
"What?" he whispered.   
  
"You," was all he could manage.   
  
Sam smiled. "Take your pants off."   
  
There was another flurry of movement as four hands tried to remove two pairs of pants. Fingers scrabbled, legs and hips wriggled, belts jingled, and finally the denim and fabric hit the floor leaving the two men in only their underwear.   
  
"Damn," Sam breathed, feasting his eyes.   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"I could look at you all day."   
  
Callen reached out, a little surprised by his boldness, and drew Sam's hand to his chest. "I'd rather you touched me."   
  
Sam sank down on top of him, his hand already tracing the lines of his lover's side. "Baby, I may never stop."   
  
The endearment caught Callen by surprise and it must have shown because Sam gave a different sort of smile, leaning down to whisper against Callen's nipple, "That's right. Baby." His hand slid down the outside of Callen's thigh, tugging at the underside of his knee to spread his legs. "Been thinking it for a while." The hand moved over the knee and trailed its way up Callen's inner thigh. "Making you mine." Callen had never wanted a name more than in that moment so he could hear Sam say it in that sex roughened voice. Then the hand settled over Callen's cock and started the slow, agonizing rhythm and he had no more thoughts at all.   
  
Callen's uneven breathing stuttered and became a moan. His hips pressed towards the friction. He cried out in protest when Sam's hand left him, and their eyes met as the dark hands slid beneath the elastic waist of his boxers, easing them down over Callen's hips. G's pulse quickened again, lips parted for breathing.   
  
Sam returned for a kiss, his mouth crushing over Callen's, recklessly possessive. His palm made a circle over the head of Callen's cock, spreading the pre-come, slicking the shaft with two tortuous slides. The noises Callen was making, and the way his fingers worked against Sam's own shoulder were ramping his own desire to new heights. He should have known his partner would be a responsive lover, but he had only hoped. No-one knew G the way he did...and no-one ever would, he promised himself as he shifted his grip and quickened his rhythm. No-one would know that that small twist over the head of Callen's cock on the upward stroke could make him gasp and choke. Or that the tug of teeth on his earlobe made his chest heave. Or that the nudge of Sam's own knee against Callen's inner thigh made his lover tangle their legs and tilt his pelvis for more. These were Sam's secrets to know, and he would guard them jealously.   
  
"S…SS....Sam!" Callen gasped out, chest heaving.   
  
"Tell me!" he urged.   
  
"Oh..oh...harder. Oh God, harder, Sam."  
  
He tightened his grip and increased the pace, his hand a blur of movement. He brought his face close to Callen, who turned until their foreheads touched. Sam fancied he could taste each groan and gasp he rent from his lover's body. He watched in awe at the expressions flitting across the familiar countenance; each one a version of desire that he had made possible. He thought he might find his own release over just that fact.   
  
Callen, meanwhile, could barely hold a coherent thought in his head so passion fogged was his brain. One thought after another tried to find traction, if only to reduce the spiraling lust that had control of his body, but nothing seemed as important, or was as powerful, as the things Sam's hands and lips were doing to his body. No amount of imagining could have brought him to this moment; no memory could equal the experience itself. He wanted to stay here, lost in Sam's touch for the rest of his life, but his body had other ideas. It was racing towards the inevitable climax like a steam train on a downhill track, and Callen was simply clinging to the engine at risk of being blown apart at any moment.   
  
Sam's hand pushed down his shaft and twisted, his long fingers cupping over Callen's balls and stroking the space behind.   
  
Fireworks went off in Callen's head and his left leg jerked up to hook over Sam's hip, his head arched back on the cushions.   
  
"Oh....God! Are you...sure...? How do you know...? Oh...other men....?"   
  
He could feel the grin against his skin as Sam caught on, but instead of joking, his hand tightened, twisted deliciously, and touched that spot again.   
  
"Only you, baby," he growled into G's ear. "No-one else."   
  
Callen broke apart with a strangled cry of release, pumping his hips into the vice-like hand, and letting his fingernails bite into Sam's granite shoulders.   
  
"I've got you, G," he murmured, arms snaking under Callen's trembling form to gather him close. "You're mine now."   
  
Callen turned his head to look in Sam's eyes, still dark with passion, and closed the distance for a kiss. He could feel Sam's surprise when it was not the languid kiss of a sated body, but tinged with the ferocity of one who had something to repay. Callen's body tingled with glorious aftershocks, his erection now only at half-mast, but a single glance revealed Sam to still be in a state of rigid desire. G had been so captivated by the seduction of his own body he had forgotten to lay a single hand on Sam's, but he meant to remedy that immediately.   
  
"Not yet," he replied, and pushed up from the couch.   
  
Sam flinched in surprise, worry clouding his features as he feared G was running, but then his lover only turned back, raking his almost naked body with his eyes.   
  
"You could make me a selfish man, Sam Hanna," he warned, bracing himself on Sam's upturned knee as he bent his own knee on the edge of the couch. "So I'm going to work on that."   
  
He slid his palm down Sam's inner thigh to the valley between his legs, curling his finger under the soft fabric of his shorts. His partner just lay on his back, watching G work, while his chest rose and fell in quick breaths of anticipation.   
  
Callen's body was full of that pleasant hum that follows a powerful orgasm, and it left him feeling bold and confidant. His eyes on Sam's, he leaned down and mouthed his erection through the stretchy cotton of his shorts.   
  
Sam's mouth fell open on a ragged gasp, and his head tipped back on the cushions. There was already a wet spot on the underwear from Sam's leaking cock, and Callen could taste the first hint of salt as he sucked and laved at the iron rod beneath.   
  
"G..." he ground out, arching his back. "I won't...last...."   
  
Knowing how long he had already been waiting, Callen left off his torture and removed the underwear as efficiently as possible, which wasn't easy considering Sam's size. Without the filter of fabric, Sam's dick was a thing to behold; sleek, and black, and as stiff as a broom handle covered in silk. Callen's mouth watered even as his heart pounded. All the things he had been fantasizing were now attainable, and heart racing, and terrifying. He could feel himself getting stiff again at the prospect of what was to come - no pun intended.   
  
He palmed the inside of both Sam's thighs at once sliding down to the thatch of hair from which his goal sprung. Remembering what Sam had done to him only moments ago, and how good it had felt, Callen slipped his left hand under Sam's balls, cupping them, feeling their weight, and brushing the place beyond. With his right he grasped the thick stalk of Sam's cock, and squeezed.   
  
Sam's hips snapped off the couch as he groaned loud.   
  
Callen ran his thumb over the ridge of vein, and then pushed into the slit.   
  
"G. Fuck."   
  
Pre-come was leaking from him, it's taste salty and exotic as Callen finally slid his mouth over the head and swallowed as much of the length as he could.   
  
Sam's initial roar turned into panting as Callen set a torturous pace. It was messy and clumsy, but when Sam looked down at his partner cradled between his spread thighs it was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. He ran a hand against the other man's close cropped hair and let his hand ride the bobbing rhythm on his dick. He could feel the warm, wet heat of Callen's mouth, the friction of his tongue on the underside of his erection, and the suction on the head. And he could hear Callen's soft moans as a contrast to his ragged breathing and the roar of blood in his ears.   
  
"Oh...God, G, I... Oh...uunng." His hips bucked, and his fingers scrabbled at the back of G's head. "Fuck! That's so good... So good... Oh..oh, I'm gonna come... G, I'm gonna come..." And then his back arched and his body went stiff, his heels digging one into the couch and the other the carpet, the muscles of his arms and thighs standing taut beneath the skin.   
  
Callen lifted his head and watched as his hand drew forth the ropes of milky white semen, watching it splash on Sam's stomach and chest, and over his own fingers. And he felt his own orgasm racing up his spine, taking him by surprise. He fell forwards onto Sam's chest and was gathered in unyielding arms as they humped up against one another and Callen's orgasm overtook him, adding more sticky white cum to the puddle already gluing them both together. He lowered his forehead to the waiting shoulder and felt a hand squeeze the trembling muscles in the back of his neck.   
  
Sam's other hand swiped over his own forehead as he blew out a breath. "Holy shit, G."   
  
Callen started to chuckle. "That's the best you can do?"   
  
"Hey I can wax poetic about what just happened for the next year without repeating myself if you'd rather?" he offered tartly.   
  
"You're not going to be one of those annoying peppy-after-sex people, are you?" His voice was muffled by both Sam's skin and his quickly fading consciousness. Since he was too comfortable to raise his head he had to imagine the mock disgust on his lovers face as he complained, "You got no poetry, G, that's your problem."   
  
"I thought skipping breakfast was my problem."   
  
"Nah that's just what's going to get your skinny ass shot first." He slapped the part in question as he spoke, and then squeezed it for good measure.   
  
Callen couldn't help the gasp, and his involuntary wiggle drew a moan from both of them.   
  
"Not enough protein," Sam continued, now caressing Callen's butt cheek with the side of his thumb. "You get sluggish reflexes and slow response time."   
  
At that Callen did raise his head and quirked a brow at his partner. "I am slow to respond?" he queried. "You can say that to me after you just played me like a violin?!"   
  
Sam laughed. " 'Played you like a violin'?" he teased.   
  
Callen shrugged, a smile tugging at his face. "Hey, I got poetry too! There once was a man from Nantucket..."   
  
Sam grinned. "That is the first time I've had ideas about how that's going to end."   
  
Callen chuckled. "Right!" And they both dissolved into wicked laughter.   
  
It felt almost as good as the sex to be tangled around each other laughing like school boys. It made other muscles ache that had been equally unused after their year of hell. The strength of Sam beneath him made Callen breathe easier, and Callen's weight on top of Sam felt reassuring.   
  
As the laughter faded, Sam stroked his hand tenderly over the back of Callen's head, and asked softly, "Can I stay the night?"   
  
Callen's heart answered, _Stay forever, ___but his voice simply replied, "Yes, but I get the first shower."  
  
He clambered clumsily off his Sam mattress, careful with knees and elbows, and reached down to haul his partner up beside him. The dark hands slid immediately around his hips, the mouth lowering to nuzzle the base of Callen's throat.   
  
"Why do we have to take turns?" he purred against the cooling skin.   
  
Callen arched his neck to allow better access. "We are not fitting in my shower stall together!"   
  
"Well that sounds like a challenge!"   
  
The two looked at each other, mischief bright in both sets of eyes, and then simultaneously pushed one another, stumbled and took off running for the bathroom.   
  



End file.
